


Saint Thursday

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Pretentious Endeavour Slash [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Blow Jobs, Cock Worship, Come Marking, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Drabble, Facials, Infidelity, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, and still pretentious as all fuck, greater emphasis on Morse's daddy issues, slightly less shameless smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse lets something slip in an intimate moment, and finds himself profoundly affected by Thursday's reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saint Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a lovely comment by bobintheback who pleaded for more frendeavour porn. I banged this one out rather quickly, and as usual am doing so at an ungodly hour, while physically unwell (aftermath of low grade chemical burn/allergy to chemical exposure thing caused by my own stupidity/inability to read safety warnings.) as usual, all is okay, but i have been feeling sorry for myself, so i decided to reward myself with porn.
> 
> can be read as a stand-alone or as a sort of vague follow up to 'Road Head.'

* * *

He can’t articulate what he feels when he’s kneeling, mouth full, eyes rolling upwards to catch sight of his boss’s perspiring, flushed face. When their eyes meet, he inhales through his nose and slowly takes Thursday down to the root, throat opening for him, wet and hot.

The older man babbles praise when he gets close, hands tight in Morse’s hair. He calls him ‘my dear Morse,’ murmurs ‘oh, Endeavour,’ and ‘easy, easy lad,’ and it’s perfect. More than perfect, when the blunt head of his prick is tracing along Morse’s lower lip. It becomes too much – it always becomes too much.

Morse isn’t sure why he lets it slip this time when he’s been so careful before, even lost in his own pleasure, even with Thursday inside him. It happens when he’s achingly hard, knees sore and stiff, mouth bruised from over-use. It happens when Thursday pulls back, and spills against his cheek and chin, and he’s marked, _branded_ by scalding jets, that he spends, untouched, in his trousers, whimpering ‘please’ and ‘sir’ and _‘Dad’._ He cuts himself off, but not before Thursday’s big hand tightens in his hair, forcing his head up, eyes wide and incredulous.

“Morse –”

It must show in Morse’s face, the cloying mix of fear and shame that chokes him more than Thursday’s prick ever did, because the old copper lets out a rumble of a groan and wipes at the mess he left on his subordinate’s face with his thumb.

“It’s alright... son. You're alright.”

It shouldn’t be possible, for so few words to contain so much genuine mercy, such boundless compassion, but they do, and it brings the young man to tears. Thursday, bless him, misunderstands and fusses, stroking tousled hair and murmuring assurances. Morse wants to tell the truth, to say that they aren’t tears of grief, but he cannot fathom what to call them. The closest thing that comes to mind is worshipful. But for the semen on his face and in his pants, he could be kneeling at the feet of a saint. Saint Thursday, he thinks madly, and he laughs as he sobs.

“What’s got into you, then, eh?”

How can a voice be so kind, so without judgement? It hardly seems human. That big hand cups his cheek now, warm and steady as a rock, and there is benediction in it.

It feels like blasphemy and epiphany all at once – the dizzying rush of joy is equal to the sting of wrongness that still festers in the back of Morse’s mind, that this is his boss, his _married_ boss, this man with a wife and children, that brought him to his knees –

The brush of fabric against his face brings an end to the thoughts circling, vulture-like, in his head. Thursday is kneeling with him, muttering something about ‘old legs’ and grumbling good-naturedly as he wipes clean Morse’s face with his handkerchief. Morse knows without looking, knows by feel, that the corner is embroidered, monogrammed ‘F.T.’. Win Thursday’s work – a homemade Christmas present from a lean year. Morse feels the bumps of thread, coarse and thick, against his tender lips, and he kisses where the cotton swells over the press of Thursday’s fingers. The fabric removes the evidence of the act, leaving Morse exposed, and raw, and naked beneath the watchful eye of the universe. It is terrifying, the weight of that vastness, but soon it is forgotten – Thursday’s mouth meets Morse’s own, and he is, momentarily, absolved.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't help but feel like i 'peaked' with Road Head and that, henceforth, all my Endeavour fics will be shite. but a plea for porn, however lousy this porn may have turned out to be, is nonetheless a plea i cannot refuse.


End file.
